


Take Off Your Skin and Dance With Me

by MissNaya



Category: DCU
Genre: (it's brief tho), Amputation, Animal Attack, Animal Death, Daddy Kink, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gang Rape, Gore, Guro, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, I tagged all the mentioned pairings but sladick is the focus, Incest, Just to be safe, M/M, Multi, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Past Rape/Non-con, Sex Pollen, Vivisection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:12:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissNaya/pseuds/MissNaya
Summary: During a breakout at Arkham, Dick gets dosed with Poison Ivy's sex pollen and Scarecrow's fear gas. The combination doesn't sit well.





	Take Off Your Skin and Dance With Me

**Author's Note:**

> here we are, on day 6 of SladeRobin Week. the prompts? "Sex Pollen || Hallucination/Nightmare." well, of course I've gotta go with both this fine Halloween Eve!
> 
> I tried to include everything that appears in the story in the tags, even if it's only a brief mention. I just want to cover all my bases, considering the content is... a little extreme. it also takes a while to get to the Slade/Dick part, but rest assured, it's there! buried underneath all the gross stuff. seriously, don't read this if you don't like gore, sexual assault, and other uncomfortable subjects.

Everything went south so fast.

A mass breakout at Arkham is never easy to deal with, a breakout on your first night out after healing a broken leg? That’s even worse. Bruce had told him not to help, that the rest of them had it under control, but Dick knew that wasn’t true. Kate, Jason, and Tim were all out of town, and while Damian, Steph, and Cass were all plenty competent, even they couldn’t be expected to deal with hundreds of inmates all on their own. Communication with the Gordons was spotty thanks to some villain’s radio wave barrier; no eyes from Oracle, no status updates from Jim.

It was a bad situation all around. Dick held out for as long as he could, but taking down Poison Ivy had only served to incapacitate him more. Her pollen left his vision fuzzed at the edges and his blood rushing places where it wasn’t needed, and his nerves weren’t translating pain properly anymore. Every step on his recently-healed leg sent jolts of pleasure through his body, but he hadn’t been present enough mentally to realize that that was a very bad sign.

It wasn’t long before his leg gave out beneath him after too much strain. He’d fallen down a flight of old stone stairs that led right into the basement, where echoing screams told him Scarecrow had made his temporary home.

He’d tried to pull himself up, but it was no use. He couldn’t get a full catalog of his injuries with Ivy’s pollen affecting him, but the overwhelming pleasure throbbing in his veins told him he was probably in pretty bad shape. It wasn’t long before his grunts and groans had attracted Crane right to his location.

And that had been that. He’d gotten a faceful of fear gas before he could even unhook his gas mask from his belt.

Now, he writhes on his back under its influence, watching as the ceiling above him twists and changes like dye in liquid. His heart is hammering into overdrive; at this point, he fears he might just go into cardiac arrest. Having two toxins in his system can’t be good. He needs an antidote, needs to reach one of the others—

Quick as a blur, a bat flies across his field of vision.

In his state, he can’t tell how big it was. Just one of the bats that make the dank basement of Arkham Asylum their home? Bruce, soaring over him to pummel Scarecrow? Or just a figment of his imagination? With great difficulty, Dick rolls over onto his hands and knees, intent to figure it out.

But when he looks down at his hands, something is… wrong. They’re green, not black and blue. Big, gaudy gloves cover him up past his wrists, but there’s nothing but bare skin above that. He sits back and looks down, only to see, in almost blinding color, that he’s wearing his old Robin uniform.

His head swims, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about the change and what it signifies. He staggers to his feet, ignoring the bursts of pleasure-pain that erupt in his legs and his back when he does.

“ _ Robin, _ ” he hears someone call. Bruce. That’s Bruce’s voice.

He staggers toward it, even though his shorts are too tight and his body thrums with dissonant feeling with every step. The hall stretches out impossibly long in front of him, brightly-lit just like his costume. Little plastic bats, the kind you’d find in a Halloween store, dangle in neat rows from the walls, fanged smiles painted on their faces. A few of them lie on the ground, split open from the fall. Maggots and meat spill out of their insides, being picked at by little crowds of birds — robins, to be precise.

They swarm him as he draws close. He waves them off, but their pinprick pecks still land. The feeling is not unlike the cold-hot gel he uses on his sore muscles after patrol: bright pain that dims down into dull, throbbing pleasure.

It isn’t long before he begins to pass cells set into the walls. Some are open and empty, while others contain people he knows, all of them in states he doesn’t want to see. There’s Blockbuster, head little more than a gory pulp, being ridden by Tarantula, who whispers “ _ That’s good,  _ querido, _ that’s right _ ” as she goes; Barbara, legs chopped off at the hip, squeezing her bare breasts around one of the prison bars while a pool of blood trails off behind her; Roy with track marks and Kori in chains, showering kisses all over Jason where he lies, naked and rotting, in an open casket.

He stops looking, but the images stay in his mind as if they’ve been painted onto his brain. His cock throbs in his shorts whenever those terrible visions dance in his head, only exacerbating his distress. He tells himself that none of it is real, that Ivy’s toxin is interacting poorly with Crane’s formula, but it does little to dispel the guilt that crawls up his spine.

He has to focus on Bruce. Bruce, who keeps calling him from somewhere just out of his reach. Bruce, whose calm, stony voice turns to panic, while all around him, Scarecrow croons, “ _ What are you afraid of, little bird? _ ”

Suddenly, loudly, Bruce screams. Dick starts to run, slamming into walls and navigating corridors that weren’t there before, passing the same cells and new ones, worse ones, that he tries not to look at. His lungs burn with the effort, and the birds swarm around him with renewed vigor, some ending up crushed under his heels. Finally, his aching body gives out, and he falls, and falls, and falls, and lands flat on his face somewhere cold and dark.

He doesn’t want to look up. He wants to try and stay in the blackness behind his closed eyes, but he’s not far gone enough to think it’ll last, not when all of this is in his head in the first place. When he hears Bruce groan, right in front of him this time, he has to see. Has to know what’s happened to him, even if it isn’t real.

Trembling, he lifts his head. The sight makes him want to empty his guts. The room is black and white and green and purple, decorated with stripes and checker-marks and polka dots, curved inward like he’s sinking into the floor — no, it’s curved up around him, as if he’s inside one of those inflatable bouncy houses. The walls drip red with blood, far too much for anyone to survive losing, but in front of him, in the middle of this makeshift room, is Bruce, still breathing.

Bruce, with his ribcage wrenched open.

Bruce, whose ripped-out heart is in the palms of the Joker’s hands.

Joker has it up to his face, planting deep tongue-kisses on it, everything from his mouth down drenched in blood. On his upper half, he wears a battered and singed Robin costume. Dick can still smell it burning. Underneath, he wears nothing, one paper-white leg on either side of Bruce’s waist.

He’s writhing around, back and forth, hips swirling in little circles. Dick doesn’t want to look closer, doesn’t want to admit to himself what those gyrations remind him of, but then he sees Bruce’s hands on the Joker’s hips, and he can’t deny it any more.

Bruce isn’t groaning because he’s in pain.

“ _ Oh, _ ” Joker says lazily, turning his head like he’s only just noticed Dick. Bruce’s heart throbs against his cheek. “ _ Boy Wonder, you’re here at last! We’ve been waiting for you. We’ve  _ all  _ been waiting for you. _ ”

“All?” Dick asks. His tongue feels like lead in his mouth. “Who?”

Joker just giggles. He presses a finger to his lips to shush any further questions from Dick.

“ _ I’ll show you. _ ”

Then he starts to pull something sharp and shiny out of his utility belt. The straight blade keeps coming and coming, even though there’s no space for it in the belt, like a long string of handkerchiefs that a magician might pull from his mouth.

When it finally ends, he points it right at Bruce’s throat.

“No!”

Dick leaps up, turning the whole floor into a dune field of trapped air that rocks him off balance. He’s too late. Joker slams the knife down. It doesn’t stab Bruce, though; it penetrates the floor right next to his neck, and with a deafening  _ POP, _ the whole room explodes.

The disorientation leaves his head spinning for a minute, he’s falling again, slower this time. When he lands, the garish balloon room is gone. He lies on top of a huge plush mattress set into the floor of a room that looks like it could’ve come straight out of an escort hotel. It’s done in all red and gold, with chocolates atop ornate decorative tables, and a TV blaring pornography some ways away. He struggles to free himself from between pink heart-shaped pillows, only to find when he emerges that he’s entirely naked.

The one thing that sets the room apart from a hotel is the huge window spanning most of one wall. People, both familiar and strangers, crowd around, smashing up against it to try and peek in. Plastered all over the window — bizarrely turned inward so he can read them — are signs done up in enormous font and peppered with lipstick and clipart Cupids.

“ _ One night only: DICK GRAYSON! Master of pleasure! _ ”

“ _ Slut. Whore. Watch him BEG for you! Sleeps with anyone, free of charge! _ ”

“ _ Naughty little Robin turned Blüdhaven hunk — the ASS that EVERYONE wants! Don’t ask, don’t stop; just FUCK! _ ”

“No.” Dick turns around on the plush-soft mattress, heart thudding in his throat. “No, no, nonono, no—”

The door to the room bursts open, and in file his “guests.” They ignore his pleas, which are all he has, his whole body drained from fighting off toxins and injuries at the same time. They grab him and stroke him and kiss him and more, and he  _ likes _ it, he goddamn  _ craves _ it, if only physically.

Mentally, though… If the feeling of helplessness wasn’t bad enough, the roster of people his mind serves up for him certainly throws things over the edge. His body moves without his say-so, pulling in people he wishes he could push away. There’s Wally, who’s always been a friend and nothing more, but who vibrates on his cock  _ just _ so; and there’s Tony Zucco, who draws a knife across his skin and whispers to him about how he watched his parents die, all while jerking him off; and then Damian, too young, too small, Dick’s stomach lurching in his throat when his little brother tries to suck down his cock, and it makes him  _ sob, _ it feels so good.

Just when he’s about to surrender himself to the idea that there’s no way out, nothing to do but let himself be used and abused until everyone’s satisfied, he hears something. A pop — no, a gunshot. Then a few more. One by one, his captors all drop dead, eyes bulging and wounds bleeding until it feels like he’s lying in a tub full of blood.

He lies there motionless while heavy footsteps approach. It’s all he can do to catch his breath. He prays that whoever is about to show up isn’t too horrifying. Slowly, a shadow creeps over him, blocking out the light. Dick dares to look up.

“ _ Wow, kid, you’re a real mess, aren’t you? _ ”

Deathstroke. It’s Deathstroke, of all people. Dick just pants and gapes. He tries to swat at Slade when he bends down and reaches for him, but it does less than nothing, and soon, he’s in his arms. This touch is different than the others. Softer, gentler. Dick rolls his head from side to side and waits for the other shoe to drop.

“ _ Let’s get you out of here. _ ”

 

He doesn’t know how long he blanks out for. Everything goes dark, and he feels like he’s floating, so he drifts off. He has to shoo away more robins when he feels them pecking away at his skin, but for the most part he doesn’t see anything past the flapping of their wings.

When he comes to, he’s back in his Nightwing uniform, and in his own bed. But not his, exactly; it’s his room as it was when he was Robin, so many years ago. He looks around, mind tumbling over itself in an attempt to process his surroundings. This hallucination is mundane compared to the others, but if anything, that only increases Dick’s fear. He looks for something, anything out of place, but from his pile of dirty clothes to the empty bottles of soda knocked over on his bedside table, it’s all normal.

And then he sees Slade. Slade, with the top half of his uniform off, broad shoulders and unshaven chest exposed. It stirs something in the pit of his stomach that he doesn’t quite dread this time. All he can do is stare open-mouthed while Slade grabs him and drags his zipper down, slowly but confidently stripping him of his clothes.

He didn’t even realize how overheated he’d been until the cool air hits his skin. He sighs, lying limp so that Slade can undress him without resistance. When he’s naked, he smoothes his palms over the sheets. They’re so soft, and they  _ feel _ colorful, somehow, like tie-dye exploding under his hands and behind his eyes. He becomes acutely aware of how turned on he still is, and how much that terrifies him.

Slade. Slade is here. Big, strong Slade with his super-soldier serum and his loose morals. How often has he imagined Slade, too handsome for his own good, holding him down and taking what he wants? As if responding to his thoughts, Slade’s there all of a sudden, on the bed, pressing a kiss to the mole just above and to the side of his cock.

“Nooo,” Dick groans. Fear and pleasure overlap to the point where he’s not sure what he wants anymore. He grabs at Slade’s hair, but his hands are swatted away.

“ _ Robin, _ ” Slade says, beard scratching his sensitive skin when he talks. “ _ Be  _ my  _ Robin. You don’t need them. There there, pretty bird. _ ”

Dick wants to say “I’m a virgin,” even though that hasn’t been true in years, not since he really  _ was _ Robin. Wants Slade to know, but doesn’t want him to care. Jesus, he can smell him, musk and metal and sweat and something else distinctly Slade he can’t name. It’s so thick in the air, so much more real than everything else, somehow. He grabs at Slade to hold onto that feeling.

This time, he isn’t pushed away.

Slade kisses up his body, and Dick mumbles things so incoherent that even he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say any more. There’s blood on his hands, on Slade’s chest, dripping down onto him. He tastes it when Slade forces his tongue into his mouth. There’s wailing in the distance; Dick wonders if it’s coming from the ghosts of all the people he’s killed. This man is dangerous. He’s… He…

A sharp, stabbing pain just under his ribs yanks him out of his reverie. Slade smiles against the corner of his mouth, a penknife in his hand, sunk two inches into Dick’s abdomen.

“ _ That’s what you want, isn’t it? _ ” he asks. “ _ Want me inside you, pretty bird? What you deserve. _ ”

Dick thinks about all his friends dying in cells without him there to help, and he sobs. “ _ Yes. _ ”

“ _ Everyone wants it, _ ” Slade says as the walls melt away. While he kisses down to the wound, a crowd forms, jeering at him from behind some invisible barrier. From Mad Hatter to Killer Croc, his parents to the two-bit villains he only remembers in his subconscious, everyone he’s ever met seems to be standing around, screaming for his blood.

Not the family, though. They’re already dead, tossed in a heap while monsters dressed as Arkham inmates gnaw at their bones.

“Kill me,” Dick says, tears spilling from his eyes. “Kill me.  _ Please. _ Fuck me.  _ Slade— _ ”

In his mind, it’s all the same. Killing and fucking, fear and pleasure; he forgets that he was ever able to distinguish the two. Slade drags the blade down his stomach, splitting him open neatly, and when he shoves a hand inside, Dick moans.

Slade moves his hand up and down in the pit of Dick’s intestines, muttering to him all the while. “ _ There you go, _ ” he says,  _ “it’s gonna be alright, kid, I’ve got you. Shh. _ ”

Another hand reaches in to squeeze at his prostate gland, and Dick howls, feeling his cock drip with hot cum. The crowd screams and throws things at him, circus peanuts and popcorn and rocks and more of those little plastic bats, ones that burst upon contact and shower him with putrid-smelling offal.

“ _ Just let him die! _ ” someone says. “ _ Slit his throat! _ ”

“ _ He killed me, _ ” someone else weeps. “ _ He killed me he killed me he killed me he… _ ”

Slade cups his cheek, smearing it with blood. He’s so warm. So reassuring. Dick moans, trying to suck a finger into his mouth, but the hand moves away before he can.

“Do it, do it, please do it,” he begs, though he’s not sure what he’s begging for. A release? A way out? An ending, one way or another?

Slade seems to know what he needs. He bends down and kisses Dick’s forehead.

“ _ You want to be mine, pretty bird? _ ” he asks. “ _ Want me to help you? Make it all better? _ ”

“Yes,” Dick sobs. “Yes, yes,  _ yes, please… _ ”

“ _ Okay _ .” Slade kisses down until he gets to Dick’s eye, forces the lid open with a prying tongue. “ _ Daddy knows what’s best, angel. Let daddy take care of you… _ ”

Dick just whimpers, arching up into Slade’s touch. The hand in his stomach, the tongue wrapping behind his eye, so deep, so  _ intimate, _ it’s all too much, too much—

Then Slade rears back and rips his eye out with one pinching  _ snap, _ and Dick blacks out.

 

He awakes in an unfamiliar room, naked and drenched in sweat. For a second, he expects things to start to change, but the racing of his heartbeat has been replaced by a pounding in his head. He groans, and, upon spotting a glass of water next to him, doesn’t hesitate in drinking it all down. It could be poisoned, but no toxin could be worse than the ones he just experienced.

He sets the glass back down. Not enough to make up for everything he sweat out, but it’ll have to do. Slowly, cautiously, he takes stock of his surroundings: it’s a small room, not much bigger than the mattress on the floor where he sits. There are no windows, and only one door, under which shines the only visible light. He’d be able to get a better look at the place with his mask’s night vision, but if his uniform is still nearby, it’s lost to him in the shadows of the room.

As if sensing he’s awake, a pair of heavy feet approach and settle in front of the door, casting two long shadows inside. Dick’s heart starts to hammer in his throat. Slowly, the door creaks open, and Dick squints as the light floods in.

“Oh, good. You’re not dead.”

Dick wets his lips and tries to speak, abruptly aware of just how sore his throat is. “Slade…?”

Slade says nothing, just crouches down next to the mattress and reaches for him. Dick instinctively pulls back, but when he realizes Slade is 1) not covered in blood and 2) reaching for his forehead, he relaxes.

“Hmm.” With a frown, Slade rearranges the back of his hand on Dick’s head a few times. “Fever’s gone down, that’s good. For a while there, I thought you might end up with your brain cooked through.”

Dick shifts back and gently coaxes Slade’s hand away. “That bad…? How long was I out?” Then, like he’s been struck by a bolt of lightning, he remembers Arkham. “The breakout! I can’t be here, they need my help—”

“Whoa, whoa!” Slade grabs him by the forearm and none-too-gently pulls him back down. “First off, it’s been 36 hours. Breakout’s contained. It’s been contained for a while.”

Dick tries to pull his wrist back, but Slade keeps a tight grip. He realizes he won’t get away until he can make it seem like he’s not about to bolt, so he huffs and relents.

“Is everyone…?”

“They’re all fine.”

With a frown and a suspicious glance, Dick says, “Then why am I here with you? I should be with them.”

“They’re around,” Slade says. “Dropped off some antidotes and supplies a while ago. It was too dangerous to transport you back to their base. Few escapees still unaccounted for, GCPD on high alert… Could’ve been ugly.”

Dick opens his mouth to insist that means things  _ aren’t _ contained and he’s  _ still _ needed, but Slade holds up a hand to cut him off.

“Don’t play hero, boy,” he says. “Not knowing when to quit’s what almost got you killed. ‘Sides, someone stuck around wait up for you.”

“Who…?”

Slade stands, a spot of mischief in his eyes. “He wanted to stay by the bed. I told him it wasn’t such a good idea, not with you all…  _ grabby. _ ”

Dick’s face flushes. He looks down at himself, abruptly aware of his own nudity, of the sticky feeling between his thighs. His heart speeds up again. “Did we…?”

“No, but you sure as hell tried.” Slade waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, Grayson, ‘unhinged and incoherent’ isn’t my type. I just couldn’t have you overheating and dropping dead in my damn safe house.”

“Oh. Can I—”

“Clothes are at the foot of your bed. Probably kicked them around with all your thrashing.”

Dick nods. “Thanks.” Slade moves to leave the room, so Dick tacks on, “I mean it. Thank you.”

Slade says nothing. He just glances back, fixing Dick with one piercing blue eye, and nods. Then he’s gone.

 

A second later, after he’s tugged on a loose set of clothes, Dick hears a shrill, “—didn’t let me know right away?!  _ Move, _ you oaf, he’s my responsibility!”

He doesn’t want to see anyone, not really, not yet, but he’s touched, and wills himself to forget about his hallucinations and focus on the present. His arms are spread wide when Damian storms in, drawn to his embrace like it’s magnetic.

“Grayson,” he sniffles, head buried in his chest.

“I know, I know.” Dick smiles. “I’m an idiot.”

**Author's Note:**

> my final SladeRobin Week fill will be an art piece, so be sure to keep an eye out for it on my [tumblr!](https://dicktofen.tumblr.com/)


End file.
